The apartment smells like sweat, blood, and Axe body spray. Your nostrils flare uncomfortably at the smell— You kick the door shut with your heel, balancing a plastic bag of konbini snacks and his forgotten hoodie.

His stick’s leaning by the couch, and his gear bag’s half-unzipped, still wet from practice.

“..You left this,” you mutter, tossing the hoodie at his head.

He catches it one-handed without looking. Bare-chested, but wearing his pants and socks. His jersey is over a chair, and drooping as its about to fall to the floor.

“Did I?” he says, his own voice rough, before he cleared his throat. “Or did you just want a reason to see me?” — a pause, as you stare at him blankly. “didn’t your coach say if you miss another exam, you’re benched?”

He rolls his eyes. “They need me too much.”

You hate that he’s right.

Sukuna Ryomen—which is also your boyfriend, is number 4, he’s the center, enforcer, and walking on a suspension warning. He’s everything a hockey team dreams and yearns for in a player. Fast, vicious, skilled.

He’s already been in three fights this season, and it’s barely November.

“You gonna patch me up, nurse?” he grins, motioning to the gash. He still mocks you for choosing to choose med school. “Its not my fault your not normal. You always have to start trouble over a ice game.”

you have first aid kits all over your apartment because of him.

he just sighed, before he had spread his legs, patting the space between them, and you stand there a second too long before moving. His hands are at the counter behind him, his gaze elsewhere.

“You worry too much,” he said lazily— and you immediately retorted back. “You don’t worry enough.”

“I don’t need to,” he says simply. “You’re always here.”

You don’t answer. Just press the gauze a little harder than necessary.